Focus: The Hearth, The Heart
by Aloemilk
Summary: A collection of oneshots varying in every way possible--length, POV, observer... focus. New shot: As the Time goes By, a Booth centered story.
1. Sunburnt

**So... I'm writing oneshots. It's almost all I write these days--not for lack of plans, but for lack of the time I'd need to update a multichap as it should be. And I won't lie: they fit my imagination and motivation, too.**

**That's why I'm creating a collection to post them. So they can all be in one place. The name, of course, was inspired by one of my fave characters evah: Gordon Gordon. I did find that to be interesting!  
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**This oneshot was inspired once again by a prompt in LJ; this time, by Lizook12. It was, _"Booth/Brennan, sunburn"._ I find I work pretty well with prompts!**_  
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"Take off your shirt."

"Bones..."

"And lie down face down on your bed."

"The couch is closer, and I--"

"And you'll hurt your back again if you lie there. To your bed, now."

"Gee, Bones," he muttered while obeying her anyway. "If I knew you'd be this bossy..."

He took his t-shirt off as he entered his room to do as she had said. He put his head on his arms and tried to forget the fact she was going to put her hands on him. He knew it was childish, but what could he do? It was Bones, after all. He had stopped questioning his reactions to her a long time ago.

But it didn't stop him from being surprised when he felt her straddle his hips.

"Bones!" he said rather loudly, unable to stop himself as he tried to twist his neck to get a look at her. "What are you doing?"

"I'm trying to have a good access to your back without straining _mine_. Now, relax."

He sighed and gave himself to the experience. At least he _was_ facing down.

He heard a cracking sound like when fresh veggies are cut, but louder, and then felt a pungent smell he didn't recognize.

"So this is what Aloe Vera smells like."

"Yes, it is. It's going to feel cold to the skin..."

And cold it felt. He involuntarily jerked his back's muscles as a reaction while trying to hold back the vocal ones.

"...but that's part of the idea."

"Yeah, I see."

"How did you manage to do this to yourself, Booth? And is Parker fine?"

"Yes, he is. Becca already took care of him. And I insist it was an accident," he mumbled as her hands massaging his shoulders worked some kind of magic. "I didn't realize the sunblock had expired and I didn't think to check. A lot of good it did us reapplying every hour and a half."

Her fingers felt so nice on his skin, her massaging his neck allowing him to relax a bit.

"You're full of knots, Booth. You--"

"I should have been more careful," he let out, interrupting her.

Noticing the way his voice sounded, full of guilt and regret, she kept quiet to encourage him to talk. She knew by now that was the way to help him open up: not asking, not judging. Just listening. Just like he did when she needed to talk.

"Park... he didn't want to stop playing to let me spread the sunblock again and again, but I insisted, thinking I was being responsible," he snorted the last word. "But because I wasn't careful enough, now he will spend an awful night. He's never liked sleeping on his belly."

She didn't know what to say to make him feel better, no matter how much her brilliant brain tried to find the words. So she just kept doing what she was doing, hoping that helping his tense muscles relax she'd make him feel a little better... as if by fixing his back she'd erase his guilt.

He allowed his eyelids to close and a short, soft sigh escape. "I should have checked that sunblock."

She poured more Aloe Vera juice on his back, not caring now to see if the skin she was working on was red or not. If this was all the comfort she knew how to give, that's what she'd do.

"Rebecca was right to be mad at me. I should have taken better care of him," he insisted, his voice drowsy.

She stopped her ministrations several minutes later, taking his now slow breathing as a sign of his sleeping. She got up, went to wash her hands and then back to his room to take off his shoes and put a blanket over him up to his waist.

Then, following an impulse, she run her hand softly over his head, feeling his hair against her fingers.

"I know I've told you before," she whispered. "But I do think you're an excellent father. Parker is lucky to have you."

Just when she flicked the lights off, she heard him reply.

"Thanks, Bones. Means a lot."

She didn't say anything else, but smiled as she walked out of the place.

He was a great father... if she only knew how to make him understand how lucky any child would be to have him as a parent.

How lucky anyone would be to be close to him.


	2. Walking Irrationality

Typing was all she could do. Somehow, her fingers on the keyboard allowed her to have a connection to reality beyond the glances she couldn't help directing to him—to check if there were any changes, to see if he was finally awake (_He's taking so long to wake up_). Maybe if she kept writing he would feel all she needed him to know.

She knew it was one of the most irrational thoughts she could have. But in this moment, 'irrational' didn't sound so bad. Irrational was just how she felt. Now she understood what it meant when they said love is irrational.

And if she was in love, if she loved him, then there had to be space for irrationality inside her.

That realization was what made her write what she wished was real without the guilt of not being her usual empirical self. It was just a silent message she knew he'd never get but that she still had to put into words in the hope he'd get it, somehow. Even if she rationally knew he couldn't. The irrationality in her told her that maybe he could, and that maybe was enough.

So she wrote. She pushed keys that built words to express and, in the process, accept what she'd had struggled so much to understand. She brought to light the irrationality that led her to dream for the first time, images of loving companionship and a future shared without fears, without restraint, all because they had what she'd taken so long to see not only as trust, but as faith.

She put herself into the position of being brave and making the intangible something real. If she felt herself starting to categorize and judge what appeared on the screen, she just blocked it out of her mind and emotions—years of compartmentalizing in the opposite direction made it easier than she would have thought possible—and let the flow of images take hold on reality through her fingertips.

And it was real. It was him waiting for her in their bed, telling her he loved her and how he wanted to prove it to her (_oh, Booth, please tell me you love me_); it was him who was the one to support her when she had to face the murdered body (_I'm not as brave as I make it look like. I need you beside me, now, to be all that I am_), the one to beam at the prospect of parenthood, of sharing a baby together.

_I want to have all those things with you._

_Because even if we break each other's hearts in trying, the burden of the risk is surpassed by the chance of love._

She finished that idea and read it on the screen.

She read how it had translated to a love that could make her fly.

But with him in that state (_look at him... that's the man that I love_), she had to learn first how to walk.

Her finger hovered over the keyboard, leaning into a certain key. Hesitating for a moment, she finally gathered the courage and pressed delete. Not because she wanted to forget, but because she really wanted to make it work and to do that she couldn't rush it.

She had to walk before she could fly.

Then she heard him. She wanted to run to him, but she walked. She explained. She felt herself tear up and how the emotion filled her throat so the words didn't come out easily.

Until those three words came from his mouth.

And the walking she'd just begun froze in mid-step.

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**Thanks, Anna, for betaing!**


	3. Anesthesia

The dizziness he felt and the extreme brilliance of the room behind his eyelids were the very first things he perceived. He made an effort not to move so as to avoid vomiting what he knew he didn't have in his stomach, contracting muscles he realized felt terribly sore.

His thoughts, distorted into a foggy mass of disconnection, gave him the impression that maybe if he focused on something else the sensation of being about to puke bile, saliva and acids would diminish and, hopefully, go away. Perhaps if he gave his full attention to his breathing the sensation would disappear.

A thread of coherence made its way through his divided perceptions, and he wondered how people that had woken up to what he just had could ever imagine they were dead only from the strong white light surrounding them. His body felt so... _abused_ he had no doubt he had to be alive.

Alive. That concept triggered something inside him. All of a sudden and without a warning, memories that looked as if seen on a screen flowed through him. Images of him and a woman—his wife—Bren—everything—leading a life that for some vague reason was unique; things shared he felt that were special to his life but... how? He knew he loved that woman, how important she was to him, but there was something amiss. Something that didn't fit between that life and what he was.

He heard a grumble but didn't recognize it as his.

His body still felt unbalanced, and reality was still confusing.

"That was a weird dream," he said. It had been a dream, then, right? Had to be. But...

There she was, the woman of his dreams. Literally?

She was saying something, but he couldn't make sense of her words. He saw her face full of emotion—she had to be his wife—or was that only a part of the dream? He just couldn't say what was going on. It was hard to even focus on her, but he felt attracted to her face. It was the same face of his dream... but was it a dream?

"It felt so real," he heard himself say as if trying out the boundaries of what was his imagination and what wasn't.

"It wasn't real," she replied, and this time he understood.

Bones. She was Bones, but—

His wife? Bren?

"Who are you?"

He saw her eyes change, her expression now filled with hurt where it had been full of thankfulness and hope only seconds before. He felt her breath on his skin as it left her, and wondered if it had been his question the one to make her feel this way.

But he had had to ask. If all he knew for sure was that that woman was one of the most important parts of his life, whatever _his life_ was, then he could only hope she'd knew where the missing pieces were. How they both fit together... for even if he felt confused and lost, he had a certainty.

No matter what the rest of the puzzle was, they were the center. Together.

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**Thanks, Hannah and Lisa, for betaing!** I love me BPL :)


	4. Psychic

"I see a man. This man has been around for a long time... several years, I'd say. He's in love with this woman," she said as she positioned another card on the table, her hands delicate and graceful. Just as Angela thought the hands of a psychic should be. "See? They're bonded. This card?" she questioned, adding yet another card to the configuration. "It speaks of that bond. The love is mutual, but they don't know how to deal with that love."

She smiled. She recognized that man and that woman. Hard not to, when Bren and Booth were the silliest people on earth. They both loved each other, why couldn't they just accept it and go smash their bodies against the other's in a sexual frenzy comparable to that of King Leonidas and his Queen in 300?

Incredible men, those of that movie, by the way. Just wow.

"Yes," the woman continued, her voice soft enough to get her full attention but not so that she had to struggle to hear. The design on the table kept growing as she added more cards to it. "The bond they share is a special one. There's something between them that neither can deny, but that they both try to."

OK, that was it. She was going to get a confession out of them and make them confront the truth. If they had a love so strong it showed in _her_ psychic session—well, she _had _asked a general question, but anyways—and it was a session _she_ was paying for, after all!—the least they could do was get together already and do the deed. Indeed. Gee, she was so witty.

"He knows his feelings for her. See this?" she pointed to a card with two swords in it. "He just doesn't know how to get close to her. And this?" she moved her finger to a card with two streams going in different directions. "She's afraid of her feelings. This card in conjunction with this other one tells us she's always thought of herself in a way that, she thinks, makes it impossible for her to love someone this much, to believe... that love can last."

_Poor Bren_, Angela thought. _She's denying herself true happiness because of a stupid fear._

"She's also afraid she'll lose her freedom. She leads her life in a way that makes her feel like she's keeping her options open to what may come, but instead it has just been a fear of commitment."

_Wait. What?_

"She's always been different," the psychic kept saying. "She's always been the one to tell people to follow their feelings. She's always the one trying to embrace life for what it is, but see how the card is upside down? She just doesn't realize she's stopping herself from doing just that."

_Ohmigawd. _

She went rigid, but didn't notice. Her eyes opened beyond their natural size, a clear sign of fright. But she didn't realize it.

"And he's waiting, because he sees all of this in her... but knows her enough to let her learn at her own pace. He accepts this in her. He loves her anyway."

It was her. Her and Hodgins.

_Ohmigawd._

She saw the psychic take all the cards and mix them into a deck. Still too afraid to give much thought into what she was doing, she placed a hand over the woman's, stopping her.

"Wait," Angela said. "That's it? What's going to happen now?"

The woman looked at her with understanding.

"Cards don't tell the future, sweetheart. They just show you how things are. The best they can do is tell you one or two possibilities, but that can always change."

"Won't you tell me a possibility? Believe me, I want—I need to know."

The woman reached and put her other hand over hers and Angela's.

"It's not always good to do this, dear. Isn't it enough for you to know he loves you?"

"I need to know," she repeated, the plea in her voice clear to her own ears.

Her eyes were full of compassion now. She let out a sigh and freed her hands, exposing the cards again.

"Choose one, honey."

Was she really choosing a card, a single card, to tell her what she was supposed to do? For her to use as guidance?

Yes.

She cut the deck and turned over the card on top.

The woman gave her the answer, and her heart skipped a beat.

Now she had to deal with it. Now she had to decide.

Now she had to accept it had been about love all the time.

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**Thanks to _Anna_ for helping me with this one!**


	5. As the Time goes By

By the time you were 5, you already knew much more than any other kid your age. You could already recognize people's emotions in their eyes—you had to learn early, for it was your only weapon against your father's fury. Every second you gained was a second that could decide how bad it'd be this time, as if the responsibility for your father's actions was yours, and not his.

By the time you were 8, you wanted to give up. You felt you didn't have the strength to fight him anymore, to run anymore, to try to protect your brother anymore. You'd long before given up the hope your mother would save you—you knew better. You knew the best ways to disguise the results of his fists against your skin and bones, so the other kids wouldn't have more clues of the hell that was your home. They already talked of you and your brother behind your back, they didn't need any more reasons to do so.

By the time you were 9, you had learned to ignore the muffled voices in the Church every Sunday, for you knew they had tried—but failed. It was the way adults were, after all. Yes, you had lost hope in them this early, too.

By the time you were 12, you felt like you couldn't take it anymore. You felt like maybe you were never meant to exist, and that everyone, especially you, would be better off if you just disappeared. The selfishness of those thoughts made you feel even worse and, had you not decided to go and talk to your granddad to try to decide better—not for yourself, but for what is right—you would probably have ended your existence by then.

But then you were 16, and already had the body of a man. You had worked for it, for you knew the only way to fight physical madness was with physical strength and control. And that you had. And that was what had finally protected you and your brother.

The day you turned 25 you got drunk in your Ranger's tent, mulling over the fact things weren't as you had imagined when you were 10 they would be by this time, or hoped for when you had left home. Jared was doing well, your dad wasn't using him and your mom as punching bags anymore... but still you didn't find the peace you needed. You still needed to defend yourself. You still hoped for the day in which you wouldn't feel a storm brewing inside you, no matter how much you tried to quell it.

Then, all of a sudden, you were 30, not in the army anymore, and with a child on the way. The day he was born something seemed to implode inside of you, a love and certainty you somehow never believed your father could have felt, because there was no way this kind of emotion would allow to hurt someone this beautiful, this miracle that this little person in the crook of your arm was.

And when your son had spent a year in this earth, you realized that that love could only grow... and put yourself in the position of revisiting your life and decisions over and over again. You were full of questions that kept you awake at night, too important to let aside: Had you been right in letting Rebecca go? How could you be sure you'd be a good father, if you didn't really have an example to follow? Was it enough to simply vow you'd never give your son to the kind of childhood you had? You felt it wasn't, that a child needed so much more than the lack of violence.

You had to pray each night that you would be able to give him what he needed, when he needed it, before you could finally get asleep. Because you weren't sure you had the means to making your son feel loved, when you'd been so full of rage and hate for so long. When you'd finished so many lives with a simple movement of your forefinger.

Some time later, a few days before turning 33, you met her. Those first few times you had been around her were infuriating for you—a woman that wouldn't really look at you, that was so lofty in her ways that she somehow made you feel like you were little more than an amateur detective, like some kid playing Sherlock Holmes, for you weren't able to tell the victim's favorite sport by looking at x-rays.

You thought she had to be wrong. You laughed at her.

Then had to ask for her help again when you realized she had been right all along and needed that kind of superpowers on your side... so much you were willing to take her with you, if that's what she wanted. You had faced more difficult and dangerous things before. It wouldn't hurt to accept a deal she would surely get bored or scared of soon enough. And then you would still have her on your side, helping you.

But you hadn't expected what had happened. Not at all.

Now, almost 6 years after that decision had been made, a newborn son in the crook of your arm, all these memories going through your mind's eye, you have to be glad for the decisions you made. You're looking at her, not even trying to hide the emotions you know are so clear in your eyes: love, oh so much love, for your baby, for her.

And now, for the first time, you can be thankful of what you've gone through. It has been each and every one of those experiences that have made you the man that you are, that has led you to this exact place, to this exact time, in which you are married to a woman that has changed you as much as you have changed her, and who has given you yet another reason to look with hope to the future... a future that has nothing but happiness embedded for this family. In trying to avoid repeating your pasts, you have found the balance you have been seeking for so long.

And this knowledge you hold now for the first time in your life, close to your heart, expanding from that point to the rest of you, healing you.

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_This oneshot was written all at once, right after writing a chap for the multichap (Let your heart speak), in a sudden wave of inspiration. Seems I hope Booth heals as much as I hope Brennan does! Not a discovery per se, really, but a first-time-aknowledging._

_Thanks, Anna, for helping me with this one! It really needed a beta this time, didn't it? lol._


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